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Struggle, my dear child,
Was the fire given to
Us; we shall continue to
Struggle, my dear child,
Until the end of days, and
Then when they ask, ‘Why
Struggle, my dear child?’
Answer that it is because
We know nothing but
Struggle, my dear child.
- WHY STRUGGLE, POEM WRITTEN BY UNKNOWN IMPERIAL POET
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THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN IN MY CHAMBERS—that was the only reason I stayed since I didn’t get a wink of sleep: resting was an empty threat at this point—and, as I made my way to the tents that the soldiers were camped in outside the Fort, I was greeted with a bloody head on a stick.
Penelope’s.
I could see her gnarled features, a stump of a neck dripping with dried blood as the stick in question was pierced through bone—heads on a pike were never in really ‘in fashion’, I thought; no one wanted to have a dead person staring at them from the moment they entered the gates of so-and-so’s manor—and I stopped and examined it for a while before I looked at the Cadmi and Galani.
Cheap bronze plates were fastened around the chest and arms of Cadmi soldiers who were running through sword drills. I took stock of several archers who were aiming at distant targets across the expanse, but they weren’t enough to man the Fort’s walls the traditional way.
Siege warfare was definitely a no-go.
It was clear that there were two sides to the soldiers’ ‘residences’, with a wide berth between the two: the Galani were whispering to each other—some were tense, with on-edge glances towards each other; while others were angry, jamming their spears into ragged straw dummies.
As I silently watched both of the groups, I recognized similar elements in different styles: both had more close-combat warriors, which was in favor of the skirmishes, but the Galani were, simplistically, more defensive while the Cadmi were more offensive. (I was in no position to judge: I learned my ‘swordsmanship’ from a rogue Notian mercenary from Gailbraith, so really I was just blindly relying on my Ability here.)
After a quick glance, I headed to my brother first.
“Ara!” I surprised my brother by throwing my arms briefly around him from behind, even though I was sure he already knew I was approaching.
The Forsaken seemed amused, ruffling my hair wickedly before I let go.
“This city’s absolutely scorching, you know, so make sure to rest properly,” he casually remarked with a yawn, ignoring the eyes on him. “I was thinking of making some iced treats, like the ones back at home. They taste even better than harpy gizzards.”
I hadn’t stayed long enough to see the iced treats in summer, and I was sure we both knew that, but I wrinkled my nose.
“A Daycycle of eating Harpies was enough,” I decided, grimly. “The last time I had any good treats was back in, what, Zephyr? It’s all gruel—potatoes, and potatoes, and more potatoes. I’ve nothing against a healthy amount of starch, brother, but seriously. I told Sister to send more supplies, but at this point we’re really just scrambling just to feed everyone, so I probably should stop complaining.”
With that, I stretched, echoing his yawn before cheerfully waving at Akila, who acknowledged the greeting with a nod.
“Supplies,” Ara responded with an exaggerated grimace, shaking his head. “The bane of all armies. Even before you came, Sera, I’ve been looking at the numbers. Unless we force the people inside the Fort to ration, which’ll obviously lead to starvation casualties, we’re not going to last more than a Dayhept.”
Bellum was a military Fort, but still I frowned, thinking of the crops outside. I knew little practical knowledge about farming, but in theory…
“What about the fields outside? I get that because of the climate, there might not be large yields, but it’s really that scarce?” I asked.
Ara nodded. “The Draconian Peaks do somewhat deter someone deciding to set up crops, but they’re not completely useless, I’m told. There’re a variety of mountain goats and other things in the mountains, and the summers haven’t completely wrecked the wheat yield.” He looked at me, eyes expectant. But.
“We’d have to send out people to hunt these mountain goats, and since we’re unfamiliar with the territory, we’d have to hire locals,” I guessed. “And these locals, assumedly, aren’t very friendly towards us at the moment.” We can't trust them.
He snorted. “Your assumption is, of course, correct,” he agreed. “I was planning to set up a small hunting party today before the Republic attacks to stockpile everything. I was going to ask you to lend a hand, but we do have other pressing matters at the moment.”
And those ‘pressing matters’ would, of course, be the threat of an impending attack.
I studied my brother for a while—he was leaning against a tent pole, outside the main strategy tent without entering it, faint winds sweeping up his hair as his eyes glinted dangerously. It was strange to see him outside of the Palace, I thought, without all the tacky gold decor and shadowy guards (he’d sent them away, I noticed).
“I was captured,” I said eventually. “As you know. Naxy got me out, the ‘Pubs retaliated and started sweeping the city, and I almost got exposed. I came to Bellum after hearing you were coming. Oldest Sister…didn’t order me to. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
When I voiced that, I didn’t feel a shred of guilt, I thought. But there was regret that there hadn’t been a better option.
“And why did you do that?” the Forsaken asked, with some form of earnestness that I wasn’t sure was forced.
But still, my guard was up and I didn’t even have to force the wry smile that came.
“Are you asking whether I was tired of playing cat-and-mouse in a scenario where I had nothing but disadvantages? Or are you asking whether I wanted to witness the last battle of this war in a romantic sense of desperation to see the end?”
Why did you do that, he asked me.
“But you like disadvantages, Youngest Sister,” Arathis responded amiably, and I refused to let surprise flicker in my expression as he continued. “You do like pretending you don’t have advantages, being born a noble and being a Chosen. But you do like a challenge most of all—a test of knowledge, with the odds against you—to prove your worth and turn the tide. Many like to measure themselves against others. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I didn’t refuse the truth.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I agreed, “except the fact that I hate losing.” And I did, I really did.
My brother shook his head, tutting.
“You’re setting yourself up for failure, dearest sister. And you know that, deep down: in your quest to have everything, there’ll be no way out. Someone will kill you, and that person may be you yourself—whichever the case, you keep playing the Game. Not because you love to Win, but because you want to lose.
“You want redemption—salvation, absolution, retribution, whatever you call it. You want to die. It’s an inherent desire in all of the Chosen. That’s why they call us twisted.”
And then he shrugged, giving an offhanded wave.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, though. Like I said.”
“I’m not ashamed,” I corrected, trying to prevent my fingers from curling into my hands. “I’m scared. There’s a difference.”
“Not a very big one, when either one would lead you to where you are now,” Arathis countered, smiling. “You were scared that your sweetheart, that adorable praetor, would choose his country over you and actually force you to cripple him. You were scared to lose him forever. You were scared that it’ll be you that’ll cause the loss of this war. And you were scared, because you were ashamed—guilty—of your past actions to this point. That’s why you’re here. Because you’re scared, not because you want to.”
He made that remark lazily, drawing the last point out dramatically.
“‘Fear opens your eyes,’” I quoted in return. “‘Live to blind it.’”
That was a better answer than my usual, considering ‘maybe’, and so Arathis let me have my victory.
“I’ll write to Naxy,” he said, simply. “He’ll succeed, but I need to know whether some of my assumptions are correct.”
“Do,” I replied absently. “I…need to hunt down some mountain goats.”
My brother’s smile was wicked.
“Try not to stab someone along the way,” was all he said with a clap on the shoulder.
For all the weight his words had on me, I couldn’t resist the smile tugging at my lips as he walked confidently towards the Fort.
“Preaching to the choir there, Arathis Delawar,” I murmured.
Me? Stabbing someone? Never.
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Julian wanted to stab someone, and he wanted to do it now.
The Consul wanted to hold that sleazy, good-for-nothing patrician to the ground and eviscerate him slowly—at this moment, the young Romanus scion wanted nothing more than to flay Titus Summanus alive by ripping his skin off his bones piece by piece and set Gloria’s hounds on him to watch him be eaten alive.
I should’ve burned his Branch to the ground when I had the chance.
But it was too late for things now, and so Julian Romanus looked his grandfather in the eye, ignored the scum traitors behind the latter, and spoke.
“I will not consent,” the boy said, and the other tilted his head.
“Who are you to refuse?” the man countered calmly.
“I am—”
Your general. The Minotaur-Slayer, the King of the Battlefield. The boy who took Gloria before he even came of age and grew into his boots. The Patrician of the South, defender of the border.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Your grandson. The son of Marcellus, son of Octavian, who you made a deal with. The son of Claudia, the daughter that you abandoned. Son of the House Roma, descendant of Romulus, heir to branch Romanus.
Your king. The confession came in an ardent whisper, a secret held close and cradled and nurtured, an impossible wish.
“—your Consul,” Julian said, and immediately it felt wrong—the word twisted in his mouth and curled like a foreign snake on his tongue. Your Consul was his father, who laid on a bed with his legs twisted and bent. Your Consul wasn’t him, and so it was the wrong answer.
“You won’t stay Consul if you don’t have the support of the Senate, boy,” Patrician Hadrianus replied, eyes just a bit too sharp for his age, a bit too cunning. “I have a deal with your father. Not you.”
Your father. Not you.
How many times had he heard those words before, unspoken?
Honor. Loyalty. Prestige.
“I have a duty to this country, Patrician Hadrianus,” the boy responded in turn. “Not you. If you genuinely believe that an attack on Bellum will win us this war, you would be gambling the lives of Roma on yourself.”
Julian’s practiced deference was gone.
The older man shifted—not out of nervousness, but out of interest, as if his suspicions had been confirmed.
“I have heard that you were quite…taken with the Sixth Princess, boy. It seems like her influence has truly clouded your judgment.” Patrician Hadrianus shook his head, as if there had been a test to his words and Julian had failed. “It is a sore thing to admit, my grandson. Your strategic mind, the gift of generations…it has been lost to Venus. Such a waste.”
A waste.
Why did everyone keep mentioning her?
“Was it a merely ‘a waste,’” Julian felt the words come, “that my mother was kidnapped, tortured, and in-consensually assaulted, and you chose to leave her? Was she a waste because you thought her defiled? Are your children and your grandchildren nothing but tools to you, Patrician Hadrianus?”
The boy shook his head and laughed, letting scorn seep into his eyes just for a moment—just to let his anger show—before letting himself find that familiar stoic mask.
“I would kill for this country,” Julian said. “And I would kill Seraphina Queenscage a thousand times over if it meant that this country would live.”
But she would survive every single time, he didn’t say. Yet still, the sentence was the truth: it hardened like a pearl over a grain of sand, useless and almost for decoration. He would kill Seraphina, because he could. His people had sacrificed so much—what was a feeble attempt at love, to them? To the years and years of bloody history?
Nothing, his father would say. A grain of sand.
“Grandfather,” the boy dredged up the long-lost address in his throat, “we kept her captive, and still the Imperials came. One of the Chosen came to Bellum—”
“But another died there.”
(Once, Valerius Evander had told him about Hadrianus. Or, more specifically about soldiers.
They call it the soldier’s madness, boy, Uncle Evander had said. Once you get on the battlefield, you never get off. It follows you like a ghost, they say. Some wake up screaming, others wake up fighting. And some…they stay that way.
Evander had been looking at Julian’s grandfather at the time, who’d been entertaining several guests when Julian had come back after being stationed at Gloria.
They fight for their country and they’re proud of it, and because they think they’ve won once, they think they can do it again. They refuse to acknowledge weakness, because that would crumble everything they’ve built themselves on and everything they’ve fought for. Everything they thought they fought for.
Evander had shook his head.
It’s a choice, to respect people who willingly fight for our country, just as it’s a choice not to. But really, Marius, it’s easy to see who’s been in battle and who hasn’t…but it’s harder to see who’s still fighting that invisible war in their heads. Pity, respect, deference—soldiers are people, so I advise them to judge them like you would any other person.)
“But another died there,” Patrician Hadrianus repeated, and instead of a soldier’s will or any honorable desperation Julian saw greed. “The Imperials are complacent, Julian. I saw the calculations you made with the treasury staff—even if they are estimations, they cannot hold on. We must do this, and take back Bellum—for the people that you speak of. The Senate has agreed. It is only a matter of time before your partner does the same. They have the advantage. We must take it back.”
Why?
“I refuse,” Julian responded, voice dry.
And then his grandfather’s greasy lips spread into a smile, and even Titus grinned, as if they were just getting to the good part.
“Did you know, Julian, how that Imperial Princess escaped?” Patrician Hadrianus asked, and a roiling fear rose in the boy’s gut.
The former soldier (stationed at Gloria, and Julian knew what the border could do to a man, mind you) leaned forward.
“We were in the middle of a discussion, you and your mother, when she saw a blue-eyed maid and her supposed cousin walking nearby. She called them over and spoke to them. I couldn’t catch the words, but she might have just said something in Imperi—she even invited the girl to become her personal chambermaid later on.”
He shook his head, before leaning closer and whispering.
“It really was a pity that no one noticed who the pair really were…except, if they were that close to each other, would dear Claudia be really absolved from blame, hm?”
Julian felt his lips still.
“You are implying that a treasonous act has been committed,” the Consul felt himself saying.
Julian could see his features in the old man’s face, and he hated it.
“But treasonous acts are only treasonous acts once deemed so by the Senate, Marius,” chided his grandfather. “And said Senate would need…evidence. Testimony. From reliable sources, of course, before an indictment. And that indictment would mean execution, my grandchild.”
So that was their ploy.
“And if a certain figure of authority intervened?” Julian was tempted to sneer.
The patrician’s eyes glittered.
“If it was a dear family member on trial, or perhaps even a close friend, the authority figure in question would of course be…requested to abstain, in the spirit of the true justice of House Roma,” Hadrianus said, as if letting Julian in on a large secret. “And if further interference is suspected…after a fair investigation, if said authority figure in question is found guilty, they would also be held trial. And maybe, quite possibly, even indicted.”
And executed.
(At the moment, Julian recalled a certain quote in one of those Imperial Plays, where an Emperor betrayed by his closest aides fell to madness and was subsequently shot to death by crossbow bolts.
“Dogs,” the actor had proclaimed grandly. “I’ve raised dogs.”
And Julian hadn’t just raised dogs: he’d saved them, from the embers of the Curia explosion, rummaging through the rubble himself. And now they were biting the hand that had rescued them—traitorous, treacherous hounds.)
His mother’s father leaned forward, yet closer.
“I want you to be the one to lead the frontal charge on Bellum, and to see the finishing blow on this humiliation of a war. You are gifted, dear grandchild. We must succeed and reap the rewards in order to lick our wounds.”
A hand was outstretched, across the table.
“So,” the soldier said to the general, “what will it be, Minotaur-Slayer?”
Duty? Or honor?
Honor. Loyalty. Prestige.
Which one would the boy be forced to choose?
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“Two of hearts,” Josephine said. “Call, fold, or raise?”
The guilty card in question was face-up on a porcelain plate.
There was silence, as the three people in the room considered the matter at hand as if it was a diplomatic transgression that involved the fate of nations.
“Call,” murmured the Duke at last, pushing chips forward.
“Fold,” the soldier said while shaking his head, revealing a decent-enough hand.
But not decent enough.
Josephine giggled. “The answer was two of spades,” she confided in the two, and Lazarus winced as Ajax sat up straight proudly. The Princess swept the chips inwards in the game of her own invention and smiled triumphantly before the doors at the head of the parlor were opened and two people stormed in.
“Josephine,” said Eleanora, the beginning of a long spiel.
“Marchioness Williams,” acknowledged Josephine in return with a wide smile. “Wonderful to see you again.”
The last time they had seen each other was at lunch, which had been an hour ago, but stomaching the deeply unpleasant presence of her biological mother had been easy—Josephine had tolerated much, much worse—and the meal had passed with minimum deaths and maximum, ‘What rebellion? We haven’t heard anything about it, we swear, that’s absolutely horrible,’ from Eleanora Williams, née Cadmus.
“Josephine,” Eleanora said again, this time scandalized. “Are you still hung up on the family registar thing, my dear? Like I told you, I told your father not to do it, but you know how he is. I keep telling him, ‘Apologize to her, sugar plum, you know how she is’—no offense to you, my dear—and he keeps insisting that he did nothing wrong.”
She patted the arm of her husband.
“Which is why I brought him here, dear Josephine. To apologize. Right, Vincent?”
Josephine’s father was elbowed, and the balding Marquis shot his wife a look before coughing.
“I’m sorry, Josephine,” he said, with all the sincerity of a dying frog. “It was an overreaction. But, mind you, running away was a rash decision.”
“Vincent,” Eleanora admonished, as if she hadn’t been the one to tell him to say it.
Lazarus looked mildly entertained. Ajax looked uncomfortable.
Josephine just laughed.
Really, they’d just had a rehashed version of the lunch conversation.
The Princess held up a hand. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding here, though, Marchioness.” A misunderstanding she hadn’t bothered to correct. “If I wanted to be put on the family registar and usurp Father’s seat, dear Mother, I would’ve asked in the ten years after the Cage where I was lazing about in the palace accumulating connections on my own. How many times have we passed each other on social occasions? How many chances have I not taken?”
Eleanora’s words were circumstances as the older woman let out a high trill of a laugh. “Circumstances have changed, dear. And you of all people would know that it’s not how many opportunities you’ve had in the past, it’s how many opportunities you have now. Your father apologized, my heart. It’s time to let things go.”
You of all people.
It’s time to let things go.
They really hadn’t changed.
“I haven’t been able to ‘let things go’ from when you handed me that poisoned cup when I was twelve and told me to drink it,” said Josephine with a lazy snort. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because the numbers aren’t number-ing, and the traitors aren’t confessing. Things aren’t adding up, because someone’s making the wrong calculations. In this case, we both know what the other knows—stop with the ‘rash decisions’, Father. The wrong people are noticing.”
Vincent sniffed. “That means I’m doing something right.”
“No, that means Her Imperial Majesty is planning to execute you and put me in your place,” corrected Aphrodite’s Chosen. “Or maybe even give the land to the new Grand Duchy that my little sister’s taking over. It’s not looking good for the both of you—you’re either going to put me on the registrar and retire, or keep ignoring the problem and force me to visit the factories…personally.”
“Personally,” Vincent repeated, dryly.
“Personally,” Eleanora echoed, as if this was an affront to her existence, before huffing while shaking her head. “You’re still as hypocritical as ever, I see—you really haven’t changed. We’re done here, honey cake, let’s go.”
She whirled Vincent around and dramatically stormed out, and Josephine could do nothing but laugh.
“‘Honey cake,’” repeated Ajax, incredulously.
Lazarus frowned at her. “It’s like you don’t want a legitimate claim to the Marquessate.”
The other solider looked amused, as if she hadn't made it clear: "She doesn't."
All Josephine did was tuck the two of hearts under the pile and draw out another.
Her oldest sister was playing a dangerous game here.
“Two of spades,” the golden-eyed Princess called out. “Call, fold, or raise?”
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Greta Queenscage had made a very inconsequential decision.
Or rather, that was what she told herself.
Timaios had handled the brunt of it, and so had Deimos, with all the nobles in the Empire requesting for an Imperial visit, but she had promoted some and demoted others. The Bloodthorn viscounty was now a county, delivering on a promise Nikephoros had made with Alicia. The Cirillo barony’s noble writ had been taken away, along with other tiny minor changes that hadn’t caused too much of a stir. And now the threat to take away the Williams Marquessate and the Evlogia Duchy—if Alina misstepped—was in her hands, and after that, if all went well, she would travel to Bellum to end it all.
Honos would be conquered. Gloria would fall. And then Greta would handpick the Republic’s new internal government and take their forces in the Dark Forest in hand.
(It had been two Daycycles since Aceline’s last letter. Was she alright?)
Revealing why the Victors were Victors was necessary to explaining why she wanted to destroy the Cage—an attempt at one was better than leaving all her citizens in the dark of what ‘really’ happened.
Would they hate her for it? Somewhat, somewhere deep in their hearts that their sins were now bared to the rest of the world. Which was why she’d sent them away.
She would see this war to the end.
No matter what it takes.
Even if it required her to sacrifice herself in the process.
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